


In Memory

by Laeviss



Category: World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-29 21:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5142764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varian visits the final resting place of Garrosh Hellscream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Memory

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Mild discussion of decay/decomposition

He hadn’t expected his heart to clench when he saw his face.

Upon his arrival in Nagrand, he had been escorted through a gully and across the wind-swept plains he had heard described by his soldiers. The moon hung low in the sky despite the brightening light of day, and in every direction he could hear the shout of excited hunters and champions pushing back ogres in a fortress to the south. 

It all seemed markedly bright: a contrast to the grim errand he had set out from Southport to accomplish.

He saw the crowd before he saw Garrosh: heroes clustered around Yrel and two orcs Varian didn’t recognize. Thrall towered above them as always, as tall as Varian himself, and in the middle Khadgar let out a hearty laugh. They turned when they heard his escort approaching, the muffled clank of steel against stirrups and saddles drawing them from their conversation. A knoll sloped up behind them, and the crowd of champions upon it grew denser with every moment. It didn’t take long for Varian to guess where they were heading.

“King Wrynn,” Yrel greeted with a bow. “We apprehended Garrosh Hellscream and brought him to justice.”

Thrall gestured him over. Dismounting, he obliged, watching the Mag’har orcs at his side as he passed. They showed no sign of recognition or objection; these must be the Frostwolf leaders with whom Thrall had chosen to ally himself. His parents, if Varian wasn’t mistaken, though he wouldn’t be the one to ask.

“Garrosh is dead,” Thrall explained, his voice like thunder over the dusty plain. “And we uncovered a body we believe to be Kairoz.”

“And what of Prince Wrathion?” Varian asked, before he had a chance to consider how telling his interest might be. Luckily, no one seemed to understand.

“No Wrathion. If we locate Chromie again, you can speak to her.”

“I will,” Varian nodded curtly. He was struck by the relaxed expressions in the circle around him. It was as if everyone was taking the chance to breathe before another inevitable storm descended. Part of Varian wanted to join them, to pause and celebrate what was certainly a great victory for their combined forces, but first, there was something he needed to do.

“I wish to see his body,” the king announced, careful to keep any hint of interest from his voice. “Is he up on the hill?”

“Garrosh is up there, yes,” Yrel pointed to the crest of the knoll where the champions had clustered together. Varian wasn’t surprised. “You can see for yourself that he has been dealt with appropriately, your Majesty.”

He passed the reins of his horse to one of his guards. “If you will excuse me a moment.” And, without waiting for a reply, he turned and left.

The trek up the hill was a weighty one: the grass beneath his feet seemed to stretch for miles, and every footstep was filled with trepidation, hope, triumph, and fear, unsure what to make of this journey to a corpse he had resisted making mere months ago. There was relief in knowing that the man who had tormented both Alliance and Horde, who had almost slain Varian’s own son, had been put down, finally, to never rule again.

But that wasn’t where it ended; his heart hammered as a familiar axe came into focus.

Gorehowl was wedged into the ground at the edge of the crowd. Two trolls took turns grabbing its hilt, tugging so fiercely Varian wasn’t sure if they intended to pull it from the ground or break it. Either explanation would make sense, he decided, given the circumstances. Neither of them paid him any heed as he passed.

A dwarf who had been watching them, however, offered a bow. “Your Majesty, would ya like ta’ see ‘im?” He stepped to the side, and, as the Alliance heroes around him followed his lead, he finally got a glimpse of the display that had drawn so much attention.

The earth stretched up like a claw, clutching a corpse in its fingers like one might grasp a handful of weeds. A leg dangled from the rocks in front of him; it looked surprisingly small when paired with the massive earthen hand that clamped down around it, bringing it into submission.  His feet were bare: someone had, apparently, made off with his boots. A shadow passed over Varian's face, and his frown deepened.

The smell of burning and death hung heavy in the air. It wasn’t from a pyre, which would have been, Varian thought, the appropriate way to deal with an orcish corpse, but rather from the decaying mass of charred limbs left to dangle under the sun. He took a breath and forced the evidence of his displeasure back down his throat. Some of the champions around the body had clamped their hands over their noses, though a few did so only to muffle their laughter. 

No matter who this was, it didn’t seem right. Not even the worst of corpses should be turned into a spectacle. 

Circling around the claw that held his former foe, he tried to make out the lines of his body beneath the twisting clutch of earth: as if seeing him in his entirety would somehow make this end less degrading. His hand, now covered in flies, drooped in front of him. Varian remembered that hand, its tendons taut as it swung down Gorehowl against all who stood in its path. 

He had once been on the receiving end of those blows, long before Garrosh had been named Warchief. Back then, he had seemed little more than an annoyance, another orc who couldn’t control his temper.

If Varian had known what he would become, would he have fought harder to put an end to him then? Perhaps, but it wouldn’t have been to satisfy some noble cause: only his own fury, and the disgust that churned in his chest every time he saw the Mag’har’s haughty glare.

They weren’t so different back then, Varian and Garrosh. Even Jaina had said it, though, in his stubbornness, he had refused to listen. But without the persistence of her and his son, he knew he could have gone this way. He sighed; he could feel the eyes of the champions around him studying his face.

Garrosh's arm disappeared beneath one of the stone tendrils, only to reappear at the shoulder, bare of its horned pauldrons after his defeat in Orgrimmar. Varian had seen him, slumped beneath Thrall’s hammer, ready to accept a final blow. His feet had moved on their own, and before he knew it, his own sword had clanged beneath the fall of Thrall’s weapon.

If Garrosh had died that day, at least he would’ve died with some semblance of honor. He wouldn’t have been left out to decay like this, to be mocked by everyone who passed. Varian felt bile rise in his throat, his own regret swelling as his stomach gave a sudden clench.

He had been a fool. The regret in his chest yielded to anger.

As he paced around the back of the claw, he stared down into Garrosh’s face: open-eyed, shocked, and in pain, despite the signs of decay that had begun to set in. Varian’s eyes remained transfixed, even while his mind begged him to look away. 

He could still remember that face, contorting for reasons that had nothing  to do with pain, beneath the rough touch of his hands. Things had been simpler back then, passing the snowy Icecrown nights in a cave just beyond the Argent Tournament grounds. He had hated him, yes, but it had been the kind of loathing that gnawed at his heart and sparked a fire of need in the pit of his chest.

Back then the blood of Theramore’s citizens hadn’t stained his hands. His tattoos hadn’t throbbed with the deep purple energy of the old god who had overtaken his mind. He hadn’t abandoned Varian’s fifteen year old son to die on a cliff in Kun-Lai. There had only been Garrosh: proud and rude, but with a flicker of insecurity hidden deep within his eyes.

After their last tryst, they had lain side-by-side, and Varian had seen it, fleetingly, as Garrosh pressed his hand against his arm. They had kissed: their first and only kiss. His lips had felt warm and full beneath Varian’s mouth, and, after that, they both knew they could never meet again. The spark that had settled between them had to be quelled; they left it, abandoned, to be blown out by Northrend's frosty wind.

But now, the insecurity had taken over, filling his dead eyes with fear long left concealed. And, as Varian stared down at him, he felt a breath die in his throat. He raised his hand to close his lids, needing to block it out, needing to put those private emotions to rest, but, as soon as he stepped forward, an audible murmur rippled through the crowd. 

He hesitated, and turned away. Despite his mind’s pleas that this was wrong, that this _wasn’t justice_ , he knew, for once, it wasn’t his place to decide.

His own people had displayed the head of Onyxia after he and Anduin returned from her lair. They had gawked and laughed, just as the champions were doing to Garrosh now. But it had felt different: she was a monster, her thoughts consumed by the whispers of the old gods and her eyes flashing with a lust for destruction that couldn’t be contained. 

And yet, was Garrosh different? Varian refused to let his mind answer that question. Closing his eyes, he breathed in a gust of fresh air from the north, and forced his legs to step away.


End file.
